


Texting a Runaway

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Epistolary, Human Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder, Original Character(s), Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Slash, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows how to disappear when he wants to be alone and doesn’t want anyone following him.  But creeperwolf Peter somehow got his hands on Stiles’ new number, and it all just goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically an excuse for me to play with text message generators because I’m a ridiculous weirdo who finally took the time to figure out how to do this and screenshot it onto Word and everything after I saw a few other people using this format (I’m pretty sure it’s steterkink’s fault; they started it for me), and now I can’t stop playing with it. I don’t think it’ll just be text messages all throughout but there won’t be much actual chunks of writing either. It’s a fic experiment. A fic written through texts. I’m experimenting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. Chapter 3

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Chapter 4

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unless it hasn't been clear, this takes place after S3, after Stiles was possessed by the Nogitsune.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

* * *

 

**[~~~]**

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

**[~~~]**

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

**[~~~]**

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	8. Chapter 8

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	9. Chapter 9

 

 

* * *

 

 

****[~~~]** **

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter thunks a fist against the steering wheel of his car, nails sharpening until they cut into his palm as something icy lodges itself in his gut.

His phone remains silent in his other hand, texts unanswered.

“Goddamn it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

* * *

 

Peter pulls up outside his apartment ten minutes later as promised. Malia slides into the passenger seat, and Peter pulls away from the curb again.

“Where are we going?” Malia asks promptly, still struggling with a hair-tie as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail.

She doesn’t mention the tail-end of their text conversation, which is smart of her because Peter is not above tossing his own daughter out of the car for it.

She looks good. Peter noted that yesterday. Her skin is a healthy light tan, and even with the slightly grim but fiercely determined gleam in her eyes right now, she looks far happier than she was when Stiles was gone and she was half-heartedly going through the motions of a normal teenage girl, struggling with school and society’s expectations while her only packmate was alone and neck-deep in depression.

“I know where the Calaveras are holed up,” Peter replies when Malia glances at him.

“So we’re going to break in and kill them all to get Stiles back?” Malia’s already nodding, fingers flexing like she’s imagining her claws sinking into the first hunter she comes across.

Peter is – oddly enough – torn between indulgent pride and mildly disturbed concern. “No, we’re going to do some recon first. We don’t even know if Stiles really has been captured, or if he has been, we don’t know if they’ve brought him back to the house they’re currently staying in or somewhere else. Rushing in would be needlessly dangerous.”

Malia scowls but subsides without arguing. Impulsive, Peter muses, glancing sidelong at the girl. But sensible, and not ruled by pride.

Also indifferent to those who aren’t Stiles, who aren’t Pack. Now there’s a sentiment all three of them share.

“Well fine,” Malia frowns out the windshield. “Then should we go with the bait-and-search approach? You be bait and distract them while I sneak in and look for Stiles. Even if you’ve been avoiding them, they’ll probably know you if they see you or they’ll guess, but I’m pretty sure they don’t know my face so it makes sense for me to go, especially since they’ll probably have hidden cameras in the house or something. And I’m good at sneaking around. I spent half my life doing it.”

Peter spares a few seconds to study her. He wonders what exactly Stiles and Malia have been up to out there on their own.

Stiles mentioned killing wendigos, didn’t he? Peter didn’t ask at the time since he doubted he would’ve gotten a straight answer, but maybe he should have.

Whatever they’ve been up to, Stiles has definitely been teaching Malia more than chemical equations and Shakespearean turn-of-phrases.

“We should scout out the house first,” Peter says at last. “See how many hunters there are and what kind of traps they’ve set up. You won’t be able to search anything if they’ve been paranoid enough to set up a ring of mountain ash and who knows what else around the house.”

“Okay,” Malia nods again. “We can count heartbeats then. Stiles’ is usually faster than most people’s because of the Adderall, and I can pick it out of a crowd even when it isn’t.”

Peter doesn’t mention that he can too.

“Again,” He says instead. “If they have mountain ash, it won’t much matter. We won’t be able to hear through the barrier.”

Malia’s frown deepens. “…Should we grab someone who can break mountain ash lines just in case? Maybe Lydia? If she doesn’t want to help, Stiles gave me some blackmail on her, but she’ll probably want to help.”

Peter has to suppress the urge to do a small double-take. “Stiles has blackmail on Lydia?”

“Stiles has blackmail on everyone,” Malia informs him, and the moon bless her, she sounds proud of her Alpha. “Even his first crush.”

“And he’s willing to use it?” Peter enquires, more thoughtful, more amused, than anything else.

Malia blinks at him. “Of course. It’s Stiles.”

It’s Stiles, like that explains everything.

Peter supposes it does, if you know the boy in question well enough to realize that Stiles is exactly the type to do just about anything to get what he wants if he deems it important enough.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

“One would think,” Peter remarks conversationally as they burn the last body deep in a part of the woods surrounding Beacon Hills. “That Stiles would’ve discouraged murder as a first resort.”

“Well, he does,” Malia admits, poking at the burning corpse with a stick. Peter stands a casual, careful few feet away, pretending his wolf isn’t itching to run for the hills. “But it’s different if it’s Pack. If someone threatens or hurts Pack, then everything’s fair game. Including murder.”

She nudges at the dirt and leaves, never letting the fire fan too far or too high.

She’s done this before. Probably with Stiles.

Was it just wendigos and other out-of-control monsters they killed during their little sabbatical or…?

Peter wants to ask but he thinks he’ll probably have better luck – and more fun too – interrogating Stiles. Malia’s first and only loyalty is to Stiles, and Peter doubts the girl will go around spilling secrets that could very well get both of them locked up.

He hums instead, noncommittal, thoughtful, and fields Malia’s subsequent wary glance with an offhand smirk.

His daughter reveals nothing, even while she reveals more than she thinks she does.

“I think you should do the distracting instead,” Peter suggests as the fire dies down. Malia looks ready to protest but Peter forges on before she can. “I’m more familiar with a werewolf hunter’s traps, and you’ve said it yourself – you’ve been sneaking around for half your life. You’re probably better than I am at leading the hunters on a merry chase through the forest without getting caught.”

Malia’s brow knits. Her eyes narrow, and even though the colour is different, Peter sees his own gaze reflected back at him.

“They might recognize you,” Malia reminds him. “If they catch you on camera. And even if they don’t recognize you, they’ll probably still hunt you down for breaking into their house. Are you gonna wear a mask?”

Peter grimaces with distaste. “And they won’t hunt you down?”

“They might,” Malia nods readily enough. “But I haven’t legally been alive since I was nine. What are the chances that they’re gonna look that far back to find out who I am?”

Peter sneers. “They won’t have to. You’ve been to school here. You’ve lived here. All they’ll have to do is slip in a few questions in the right places and they’ll know.”

“Then I’ll wear a mask,” Malia persists.

Peter rolls his eyes this time. “And then what? You might still trigger a trap. Just because you can’t hear Stiles in there doesn’t mean he isn’t locked up in the basement or something surrounded by mountain ash. That’s the whole point of going in there to check.”

Malia glares. “And if he is, you’re gonna be able to get past it?”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “No, dear girl. If there’s something or someone worth keeping in that house, they won’t leave it unguarded. The Calaveras are too cautious to be that careless. No matter how much of a ruckus you make, you’ll only be able to draw four of the five hunters out at most. Which leaves me with one, and I’ll go in there and make _them_ break the hypothetical mountain ash.”

Malia wavers, chewing on her bottom lip, crossing her arms, and then uncrossing them again.

Peter cocks his head and smiles, sharp and cold. “Don’t trust me to want to save Stiles?”

Malia examines him critically. “I trust you to want to save Stiles. I just trust me to want to save Stiles more.”

Peter’s lip curls. Malia’s expression matches his perfectly.

“Wear a mask,” Malia finally tells him, and amusingly, _irksomely_ enough, it’s not a suggestion. “And don’t get side-tracked.”

The werecoyote picks up the three decapitated heads of the lackeys by the hair without a flicker of revulsion. “Let’s go.”

Peter mock-bows and sweeps out an arm. “Ladies first, darling. And I don’t think I have to tell you this, but do make sure you don’t get yourself caught as well.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	12. Chapter 12

 

The house is very quiet. If Peter wasn’t a werewolf, he would never have picked up the muted whir of the AC and the rhythmic back-and-forth of someone pacing restlessly downstairs.

Peter prowls across the floorboards on silent footsteps, gaze falling briefly on a box of wolfsbane and a countertop lined with guns as he passes them.

His lips peel back into a derisive snarl. Hunters always seem to be overcompensating for something.

He finds the stairs leading down into the basement. There’s no mountain ash here; otherwise, he’d have to make a commotion and draw the remaining hunter upstairs, and Peter would rather maintain the upper hand than lose it.

He checks his phone one last time. Malia will contact him once the hunters give up on chasing on her.

He pauses when he fishes out Stiles’ phone instead of his own. The screen lights up with a text.

 Peter frowns at the message. What is that supposed to mean? Who is Persephone? The amount of codenames in this phone is ridiculous.

A thump jolts him out of his thoughts, and after a quick check of his own cell, he pockets both phones again and lets his nails extend into claws instead. He doesn’t have time to sate his curiosity right now.

He creeps down the steps, all his senses focused on the sole hunter in the basement. He can’t hear anyone else, but that could just mean a mountain ash barrier, so not only will he have to – preferably – take the hunter off-guard, he’ll also have to not kill them just yet.

Simple enough, if not very satisfying.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried either way.

The moment he hits the bottom of the staircase, several things happen all at once. Peter glides out of the shadows, the hunter’s unprotected back in his sights. At the same time, there’s a violent rattle of chains in a far corner that Peter can’t quite see from his angle, followed by the thunder of a galloping heartbeat, sudden and loud in Peter’s ears, and then the hunter is rushing towards the noise, gun coming up to shoot, but it’s far too late already.

A bloodied figure swings out of the darkness like some sort of vengeful monkey. The chain linking the manacles around his wrists screech against the pipe running along the low ceiling as the figure swoops out, and then he lets go of one broken end of the shackles, body twisting in midair as the chain slithers off the pipe, and feet colliding heavily enough with the hunter that they both go down in a heap of struggling limbs.

Peter pulls up short, eyebrows rising as he watches Stiles produce a syringe out of nowhere and stab the hunter in the neck with it. Within seconds, the man on the ground is down for the count, going as limp as the dead, a bruise already blossoming on one cheekbone from where he smacked it against the floor when he went down carrying the brunt of Stiles’ weight.

Stiles staggers to his feet, and Peter gets his first good look at the boy since yesterday night. There’s a gash above one eyebrow, leaking a sluggish trail of blood, and a split lip that’s already swelling. He’s shirtless, barefoot, his jeans are stained with rusty red, and even in the dim light of the single lantern by the door, Peter can see the signs of torture, cuts and bruises – deep and messy and professional – all meant to hurt and last as a warning or a reminder.

And it’s only been a few hours.

Peter’s hands curl into fists, and his claws dig into his palms.

“Let me guess,” Stiles says dryly, absently scratching at a dried patch of blood on his forearm. “You’re the cavalry.”

He eyes Peter’s makeshift mask, which is basically just a plain scarf wrapped artfully around his head to cover most of his features, the best he could do on short notice.

Stiles looks like he’s biting back a grin but – thankfully for the little idiot – he doesn’t comment.

Peter clenches his jaw once before breathing in calmly. And then he breathes out, and his claws and fangs recede with the exhale. “Being taken by hunters is never a picnic.”

“I did say I’d handle it,” Stiles reminds him pointedly, moving over to a table on the side his discarded clothes are piled. He winces as he wrangles his way into his shirt and sweater, and then he gets stuck when he tries to work his shackled wrist through one of the sleeves.

Peter’s lips thin but he strides over, reaches for the cuff, and snaps it without a problem, letting it clatter to the floor. These were clearly made for humans, not wolves.

“You wouldn’t have had to handle anything if you’d just stayed in the coffee shop,” Peter counters irritably, surreptitiously curling a hand around Stiles’ wrist and drawing away some pain from the boy. “What were they going to do, kidnap you in broad daylight in front of a dozen witnesses?”

Stiles shrugs, using Peter to balance himself as he toes on his shoes before tugging his wrist out of Peter’s grip.

Peter catches his chin in one hand instead, and Stiles’ eyes instantly narrow despite not yanking himself away. Peter stares into whiskey-amber for three beats of contemplative scrutiny before letting go and taking a step back, an unamused smile twisting his lips.

“You got yourself caught on purpose,” Peter deduces softly. “Did you decide you wanted to sample the Calaveras’ generous hospitality?”

Stiles snorts, leading the way back upstairs. Neither of them pays any further mind to the unconscious hunter behind them. “I just wanted to confirm something. And now I wanna get outta here. There were five of them coming and going; I’m gonna take a wild shot in the dark here and say that you’ve got a certain shifter doing something to distract the other four?”

Peter scoffs, reaching for his phone again. “I didn’t get her to do anything she didn’t want to do. In fact, she was all for rushing in here and killing the hunters to get you back.”

He catches a glimpse of Stiles’ face as they surface on the main floor. There’s a quirk of a smile on Stiles’ face, puzzled – like he still doesn’t understand why Malia would go that far for him – but unmistakeably fond all the same.

Peter doesn’t mention it, reading the texts waiting for him instead.

“We have to go,” Peter presses forward, ushering Stiles towards the door. “I hope you got your confirmation because you’re not coming back here. Now hurry up.”

“ _What_.” Stiles deadpans as Peter guides them across the front lawn.

Peter follows his line of sight smirks a little meanly. “It improves the décor, don’t you think?”

“‘Improve’,” Stiles repeats sardonically as they hurry past the three scattered heads of the lackeys Peter and Malia killed earlier, pitched onto the lawn one by one as a taunt for the hunters. “Is not the word I would use.”

Peter’s smirk widens but he lets the banter lie in favour of dragging Stiles into the nearest underbrush, cutting through a neighbour’s backyard and coming out in the back lane several houses down, right where Peter’s car is parked.

“In, now.”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir,” Stiles mutters sarcastically, clambering into the passenger seat. “Is there anything else, sir?”

Peter slides behind the wheel, unwinding the scarf from his head and tossing it into the backseat before starting the car. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

This time, Stiles really does grin.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

“Malia, I’m fi- ow! Watch where you’re poking that thing!”

“I’m trying to help! You’re bleeding everywhere! Are you sure we can’t kill them all?”

Peter leaves them to it in the privacy of his bathroom, retreating to the kitchen and idly fiddling with Stiles’ cellphone as he waits for the kettle to boil.

He has more questions than he knows what to do with. Well, that isn’t quite right; he wants to shake the answers out of Stiles, but Stiles is a stubborn little shit on a good day so shaking him probably won’t help, and Peter doubts he can threaten answers out of the boy like he used to be able to even if he wants to these days.

He wants to snoop through Stiles’ phone. On the one hand, if Malia forgot to tell Stiles that Peter has Stiles’ cell, and Stiles himself hasn’t put two and two together yet, then it’s their own fault if Peter decides to scrounge what information he can from the device before giving it back.

On the other hand, it’s Stiles, and that alone inspires a measure of respect in Peter for the boy’s privacy. Peter certainly wouldn’t want Stiles rifling through his belongings without permission.

Then again, Stiles might do just that, for the same reason Peter is debating with himself over whether or not he should pry.

The phone in his hand buzzes with an incoming text.

Ah, a compromise. Perfect. After all, it would be so rude for Peter to ignore a text for Stiles when the boy is busy tending to his own injuries. It could be important.

Peter studies the screen. Persephone again. A contact Stiles made while he was out and about? Was the previously mentioned jaguar another codename? Either way, it seems whoever it is is closing in fast, with Beacon Hills as her final destination.

Probably not for anything good. In Peter’s experience, nothing entering this town lately bodes anything good for anyone.

Persephone though. Something about that name nags at him. His mind ticks swiftly away, recalling myths and lore and the onomastics entwined with the individuals passed down in both.

He’s always had a partiality for all things history.

The bathroom door clicks open, and a moment later, Stiles limps in, dressed in a fresh shirt and sweats with bandages peeking out here and there. “Peter? Malia said you picked up my phone for me?”

Peter smirks and tosses the mobile to the boy. “I did. And you have a few texts that seem rather… urgent.”

Stiles frowns at him but he’s distracted the moment he sees the messages waiting for him, tapping back a reply within seconds.

Peter watches him for a minute longer before pulling up a Google search on his own phone. He doesn’t even have to look far.

> _In English the meaning of the name **Cora** is: Maiden. Greek Meaning: The name **Cora** is a Greek baby name. In Greek the meaning of the name **Cora** is: From ' **kore** ' meaning girl or maiden. Famous bearers: **Persephone** used the title **Kore**._

“So,” Peter catches Stiles’ gaze even as his smile tilts with a blend of triumph and faux geniality. “When did you get in touch with my darling niece, Stiles?”

Stiles’ expression goes too-still and too-blank. A second later, Malia whirls in, eyes flashing blue.

“And while we’re at it,” Peter leans forward, balancing his elbows on his thighs. “Why don’t you tell me why you really came back to Beacon Hills? And don’t tell me exams, dear boy. We both know it’s more than that. After today, I think it’s safe to say that a successful end to your junior year of education is about the last thing on your list of priorities.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

* * *

 

“There have been rumours,” Stiles sighs as he lowers his phone.

They’ve relocated to the living room. Stiles sits on the couch, with Malia beside him. Peter’s taken the armchair and hasn’t so much as twitched while Stiles was conversing with Cora, apparently completely content to wait him out.

“Rumours?” Peter echoes, blue gaze intent on Stiles’ face. “Do these rumours have anything to do with what you wanted the Calaveras to confirm?”

Malia frowns a little at that but doesn’t say anything. Stiles scrubs a hand over his face as he tries to figure out what to say.

“Do you really want to know?” Stiles finally asks. “I mean, you’ve been trying to get out, right? You’re going to Stanford to teach and everything. Moving on with your life and all.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “And knowing about these rumours will prevent me from doing that?”

“Well, maybe not, but-” Stiles shrugs. “You know how this town gets. You get wrapped up in this thing, and then you’ll be pulled into the next thing, and the next, and the next. If you’re trying to get out-”

“Cora wanted out,” Peter interrupts sharply. “That’s why she left again. Explain to me why she’s suddenly come back.”

“It’s not that Cora’s coming back here,” Stiles corrects. “But… Malia and I, we bumped into her while we were travelling around, and she sort of just fell in with us. She doesn’t actually have a pack down in South America to go back to, you know, especially after she left the one she was with once she heard there was a new Hale Pack in Beacon Hills. So she was wandering around, and we both happened to be in Utah – in Provo – at the same time, and she just stuck with us when Malia and I hit the road again. She’s been with us for almost two months now.”

Peter is silent for a long, unblinking minute. It’s eerie. Stiles thinks he should fidget, or babble to fill the hush, but his limbs never really like to move a lot these days when he isn’t actively in motion, and sometimes, he thinks he can still hear the echo of the Nogitsune in his voice.

It’s better when every movement and every word serves a purpose. Otherwise, there’s no point moving or speaking at all.

So he sits and waits and lets Malia do the fidgeting. His knee doesn’t bounce, his fingers don’t drum out an impatient rhythm, and he watches Peter with the same clinical curiosity that the fox once ( _long, long, long ago, once upon a distant time_ ) felt when it watched empires fall and civilizations tear themselves apart.

(Stiles is not okay. He wonders – as he watches the werewolf watch him – if Peter will finally get that. He wonders if Peter will finally give up his baffling little crusade to keep Stiles grounded.)

And then Peter says, insists, demands, “Tell me about the rumours.”

And Stiles can’t really say he’s surprised.

 

* * *

 

“Alpha claws,” Stiles directs a pointed look at Peter. “You know what they can do, right?”

Peter’s head cants with a terrifyingly perceptive sort of deliberation, no doubt already starting to put the puzzle pieces together. “Of course. Alter or share memories, first and foremost. Hinder the healing rate of the wounds they deal to others. And if they go deep enough, and with a bit of luck, they could turn a human into a were-…”

He trails off, and his gaze flicks down to the cellphone in Stiles’ hand before returning to Stiles’ face again. And in the span of a breath, his eyes flare with the vivid intensity of ice and electricity.

“Who,” Peter intones flatly, straightening slowly in his seat like a predator readying to attack. “Is the jaguar, Stiles?”

Stiles doesn’t look away. He smirks a little even, humourless with a hint of bite. “You’ve already guessed. You’re the one who left her bleeding out on the floor of your family home after all.

“And just like you, Kate Argent didn’t quite feel like staying dead either, even if it meant coming back as a werejaguar.”

 

* * *

 

There’s something buzzing in Peter’s ears, clogging his throat, sitting hot-cold in his chest. Rage, perhaps. A tinge of disbelief. And an overwhelming desire to laugh hysterically, if only so he won’t burst into tears because that would just be plain embarrassing.

God. The _irony_.

“It’s why the Calaveras are here,” Stiles continues, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a long tunnel. “They came up sometime last year after Kate died to check that she really did die because they heard how she was killed, and when they realized she wasn’t- well, _dead_ , they took her with them back down to Mexico to make sure she committed suicide properly and probably to interrogate her a bit too before she offed herself. The hunter way and all that. ’Cept Katie – predictably – said fuck that no way, killed her keepers, and escaped, and she’s been on the run ever since. The Calaveras – after running around for a while and failing to recapture Kate – eventually figured that she’d come back here for vengeance sooner or later, and that’s why they’ve been sitting on Beacon Hills for the past few months waiting for her to show.”

“Is that why you got yourself captured?” Malia interjects, and Peter almost starts. He’s just about forgotten his daughter is still present.

Stiles’ expression settles into something close to sheepish but doesn’t quite make it the whole way. “Yeah, basically. I had a good hunch about what they were up to, and until Cora managed to track her down this morning, the rumours about Kate were _just_ rumours. But the Calaveras spilled more than they probably should have when they were interrogating me, and now that Cora’s actually found Kate, there’s no doubt that Kate’s definitely alive, definitely coming here, and definitely up to no good.”

Malia’s features morph into a fierce scowl. “ _Stiles_. You got yourself captured _on purpose_.”

Stiles winces a little, offering, “I won’t do it again?”

His heart doesn’t skip but Malia snorts. “Yeah, right.” She sighs, resigned. “Just tell me next time. You’re supposed to tell me these things, Stiles. What if something went wrong?”

“Well, it was actually a spur of the moment thing,” Stiles admits. “I wasn’t actually planning to get myself captured. My original plan was more along the lines of eavesdropping on their conversations, but then they cornered me in my favourite coffee shop, and who was I to turn down a perfect opportunity, right?”

Malia looks wholly unimpressed by this logic but at least it serves to knock Peter out of his stupor. Give him something to focus on.

“Why _did_ they corner you?” Peter stares hard at the boy. “The Calaveras came after you left town. They shouldn’t even know who you are, much less what you look like.”

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. “They wanted to know what I knew. Why they thought I’d know anything though is a mystery. I suppose they did their research and managed to dig me up too. It’s not like it’s that hard.”

Peter studies Stiles’ expression. Somewhere along the way, the boy learned to lie without remorse.

(Peter thinks he might mourn – just a little – the days when Stiles couldn’t lie to him to save his life. It’s not that he doesn’t approve of the lack of that telltale stutter in his heartbeat. It’s a handy skill to have after all. But he misses the time before, when Stiles’ eyes didn’t have as many cracks in them as they do now, and the shadows that lurk beyond those cracks weren’t as deep.

He didn’t think he would. Didn’t think he’d miss the last pieces of the boy’s innocence, the childish, too soft, shiny bits that weren’t yet extinguished by a dead mother and a workaholic father who drank too much.

The darkness that was always inherent in Stiles was what appealed to him. It still does even now.

But Peter never wanted this boy broken, and right now, some part of Stiles is exactly that, irrevocably shattered beyond repair.)

( _Then again, they’re all works-in-progress. And not all of Stiles is broken yet, not when he protects Malia like Pack and overrode even Cora’s self-preservation instincts enough to attract her to his side and returned Peter’s text messages._

 _Not when he came back to Beacon Hills for a vendetta that isn’t even his to bear._ )

“So what now?” Malia asks, glancing at Stiles before reaching out and tangling their fingers together. A moment later, black lines begin running up her forearm, and she holds on stubbornly even when Stiles gives her a sidelong look of exasperated reproach.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, turning back to Peter. “What now?”

“What now?” Peter repeats, and his next smile is all teeth. “Well, I take it you’re planning on being Kate’s welcoming committee?”

A sly smile unfurls on Stiles’ own face, somehow amused and concerned and decidedly not nice all at the same time. “Kate’s an Omega. And out of control. The Calaveras – nasty as their methods are – won’t care if one of us kills her so long as none of us goes on to take her place. If anyone deserves to die, it’s Kate Argent, but we all know Scott won’t go down the kill route.”

Peter sneers at the unpleasant reminder. He’s leaving though. He’ll be gone by September. Leaving this territory and everything it embodies – the legacy and heritage and ancestral roots of the Hale Pack – all to a seventeen-year-old boy ruled by his dick and his too-white morals sits wrong in the pit of Peter’s stomach. Scott McCall will never properly appreciate the immensity of what’s been passed down to him, will never respect the land or know its history the way Beacon Hills’ Alpha should. He barely even appreciates his own wolf as it is.

But nobody seems to care, so Peter is determined not to either. The one time he tried to care, he went about it the wrong way and got himself killed. Neither Derek nor Cora is likely to have children, and Peter… Peter has Stiles, in whatever capacity the boy will allow ( _one day, perhaps_ ), and he wants no one else, so unless Malia finds a mate in the future and decides she wants kids, the once-extensive Hale family will end with this generation.

It gnaws at something inside Peter’s chest. Sometimes, it makes him want to smash things at the sheer _unfairness_ of it all.

But nobody cares, so he tries not to think about it at all.

“I’ve never been one to leave a job unfinished,” Peter says at last. His fingers curl, remembering the rabbit-fast pulse in Kate’s throat against the palm of his hand. “And it’s only fair for me to clean up my own mess.”

He looks at Malia, whose eyes spark cobalt like his own.

He looks at Stiles.

Stiles nods once. “Good.”

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect update rate to slow down. I start school in less than a week so I won't have that much time to write anymore.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	15. Chapter 15

 

Stiles doesn’t need much sleep these days.  His nightmares have trained him out of it.  Or perhaps it’s another leftover relic from the fox.

Either way, he only dozes for an hour or so that night before waking again.  He pulls the blankets up around Malia’s shoulders and then slips out of the room on silent feet.

Peter lives in an apartment but he has a very nice porch that overlooks the sprawling forest out back, and that’s where Stiles goes now, leaning against the railing to feel the wind kiss his cheeks.

It’s dark, of course, but it’s also a clear night.  The moon reigns on high, and stars glimmer silver against a black canvas.  There’s a single lamppost on the far left of the building, emitting just enough light to make the footpath below visible.  Shadows splash across the ground, shifting whenever the light flickers or the nearby trees sway.

Stiles looks up again.  A shaft of moonlight bisects his left hand, turning half of it an ethereal white.

He quirks a smile that isn’t quite mirth.  He can almost hear the fox’s sly whisper.

_“Scythe of darkness, shadow’s light.  Guiding eye of thirteenth sight.  What’s the answer, Stiles?”_

“Couldn’t sleep?”

It takes a moment for Stiles to realize that there’s an actual person talking to him.  He doesn’t turn around as Peter steps out onto the porch as well and joins him at the railing, leaving a respectable half-foot between them.

It’s still close enough for Stiles to feel the werewolf’s body heat.

“I don’t sleep much anymore,” Stiles answers plainly.  He figures – since he and Malia _are_ crashing at Peter’s place for at least a few weeks – their host should at least know his guests’ sleeping patterns, or lack thereof, and that six nights out of seven, Stiles will more likely than not be up and roaming about.

“Is that how you’re getting around the nightmare problem?”  Peter asks with rhetoric dryness.

Stiles shoots back an equally dry look but he isn’t expected to reply so he doesn’t.  The night cloaks everything in a muted calm, and standing outside with the world around them fast asleep, banter just seems a little too jarring.

“Looks like you’re using the same method,” He says after a minute of listening to the croon of the wind, interspersed with the distant blare of a car alarm that cuts off abruptly after a while.

Peter hums a note that sounds like he’s conceding the point.  “I suppose I don’t need much sleep anymore either.”

They fall silent again, and it would be almost companionable if the fox isn’t so close to the surface tonight.

Well no, that’s not quite right.  The Nogitsune is gone.  But sometimes, hell, a _lot_ of the time, it’s like it never left, with the only difference being the fact that Stiles is back in the driver’s seat these days.

Peter hovers in the corner of Stiles’ eye, all sleek lines and strong build, beautiful under the delicate glow of the moon.  He’s standing on Stiles’ left, which means it’s the werewolf’s right profile facing Stiles, and Stiles can _almost_ see the patchwork of scars carved into the smooth skin, long since healed but – in some ways – never really gone.

The Nogitsune liked Peter.  Liked the particular brand of raging chaos that the werewolf carried around inside.  Burned to the bone, forever damaged, dead and not dead.

_“I’ll eat and eat whatever’s nearby, but slake my thirst and watch me die.  He burned so prettily, didn’t he Stiles?”_

Stiles closes his eyes.  The fox’s mocking laughter echoes in his ears.

“Stiles?”

Stiles opens his eyes again.  The railing creaks underneath his hands, and he has to force himself to let go before he breaks something.

(He can, these days.  He can break a lot more than a mere piece of metal.)

Peter is watching him.  Peter is always watching him, blue eyes drinking him in like there’s nothing more mesmerizing in the world.  To this day, Stiles still isn’t quite sure why.  He isn’t that fascinating.  Broken now, yes, broken before too, though not as much, and a mess of a human being always, but he’s the sort of person that people take one look at, not really seeing, and then pass over for something better; they don’t look at him, _see_ him, and still _want more_.

“Yeah?”  He asks, belatedly.

Peter cocks his head.  He doesn’t ask if Stiles is alright.  Instead, he asks something arguably worse.  “Is being their Alpha really so terrible?”

Stiles goes still.  And then he turns to the scenery again.  “You talked to Cora.”

Pete’s expression remains thoughtful.  “I did wonder if you already suspected her… concerns.”

Stiles scoffs, leaning forward on the railing so that his hands dangle over the side.  “Of course I did.  You Hales are not actually that subtle.  Sometimes, not even you.  And it doesn’t exactly take a huge stretch of the imagination to realize that Cora might want a pack to belong to.  I just…” He looks down at his hands, pale and too still.  “I just can’t be that pack.”

“And why not?”

Stiles almost laughs.  Instead, he asks, “Why do you care so much?  Why do you care at _all?_ ”  He slants a sideways look at the silent werewolf, and his grin is too sharp on his face to be even remotely kind.  “Don’t tell me you want a pack too?”

Peter cants his head, something distinctly lupine slipping over his features, sharpening them and putting a faint glow in his eyes even as his voice remains as bland as oatmeal.  “Is that so hard to believe?  I’m a werewolf, Stiles.  Pack is everything to us.  It’s supposed to mean safety and protection and companionship, and I can hardly get any of those things from McCall and his self-esteem-deprived band of teenage idiots, can I?”

Stiles stares silently at him for a long minute before turning away again.  When he shuts his eyes and focuses, he can hear the swish of fluttering leaves, the scuttle of a mouse down below, the flap of an owl’s wings in the distance, and beneath each of those, he hears the rustle of their shadows, restless tonight, in uneasy anticipation of the next storm brewing in Beacon Hills, another bloodbath waiting to devour this town whole.

Stiles opens his eyes.  And then, between one breath and the next, he zeroes in on the shadow splashed against the balcony floor a mere foot and a half away, vaguely Peter-shaped, and  _moves_ , from one plane to the other and back again.

A blink later, he’s reappeared right in front of Peter, their noses an inch apart, their bodies all but flush against each other’s, and Stiles is close enough to see the werewolf’s eyes go wide with startled shock before he instinctively jerks backwards.

Or tries to anyway.  But Stiles’ hand is already curled around the back of Peter’s neck with a grip too powerful to break without risking injury, and he smiles when Peter’s eyes flare supernatural blue all the way and his lips peel back to flash a warning fang.

The reaction still isn’t as negative as Stiles expected though.  Interesting.

“This is why I can’t be Pack, Peter Hale,” Stiles whispers, and he knows without looking that his pupils have turned pitch black.  His nails dig a fraction further into Peter’s flesh, holding the werewolf in place with ease, and his smile widens when he hears Peter’s breath hitch because Peter realizes it too.  “If I lose control, I could tear this whole town apart in a single night.”

He pauses, studying Peter’s expression.  Wariness, certainly.  Peter’s no fool.  But at the same time, there’s also a hungry, awed sort of fascination in his regard for Stiles that makes absolutely zero sense, especially in this situation.

“The Nogitsune isn’t all gone then?”  Peter enquires, his gaze bright and unwavering on Stiles’ face.

“Oh, _it’s_ gone,” Stiles assures with a mirthless twist of his mouth.  “But it took… something from me when it decided to carve out a place in my soul to live in.  It only seemed fair to take something of it right back to fill that void with when it was on its way out the door.”

He slides half a step closer, ignoring the warm distraction Peter’s body temperature provides.  His grip on the werewolf’s nape tightens, just enough to tilt Peter’s head back and bare a flash of throat.

Stiles smiles again, not bothering to glance down at the light pressure against his hip where werewolf claws are curling into the thin fabric of his shirt.

Peter half-lidded gaze meets his evenly enough but his throat bobs with a swallow, and he shudders like he almost can’t bear the contact when Stiles presses right up against him, dipping his head to huff an amused breath along the stretch of neck exposed to him.

“I got its penchant for playing games, amongst other things,” Stiles murmurs, lips grazing warm flesh with every word, slowly, deliberately scenting.  “Or maybe that’s just me, who knows.”

“Could be both,” Peter breathes with just the slightest of falters in his voice.  Both his hands are at Stiles’ waist now, not even trying to shove him away or yank him closer, just holding on like he needs something to anchor him.

“Could be,” Stiles agrees, the words skimming briefly along Peter’s jaw as Stiles lifts his head again, and he feels something that could almost be called regret when he finally lets go and pulls away.

Peter staggers a step, blinking dazedly for a long disoriented moment like he’s coming off a high, and when he finally manages to scramble back some semblance of his usual mask, the pieces of it don’t come together quite well enough to hide the rawness underneath.

Stiles expects anger, embarrassment too perhaps, and certainly indignant resentment at its heels.  But while there is a flinty coolness in his eyes as he draws himself up and wraps his impeccable composure around himself like a shield, it’s coupled with a piercing shrewdness that sees more than Stiles would like.

“That’s cute, Stiles,” Peter manages a thin smile.  “But I’ve never been one to scare quite that easily.”

Stiles hums and quirks a challenging eyebrow.  “And who said I was trying to scare you?”

Peter releases a short parody of a laugh that’s genuine enough in its amusement, if also equally dark.  “Well you weren’t trying to humiliate me.”

“Wasn’t I?”  Stiles matches his smile, mild as milk.

“No,” And Peter’s voice somehow manages to ring with a self-assured confidence that no one else would’ve had the backbone for.  “Otherwise, you would’ve waited until we had an audience, Malia perhaps, or Derek, or even the hunters.”  His features take on a knowing slant.  His eyes remain riveted on Stiles.  “You play a decent game of asshole, Stiles, but I’ve played it better, and no matter how bad you think your self-control is, you’re not anywhere near gone enough to fuck over any of us, certainly not Malia or Cora if you can’t even do it to me.”

Stiles says nothing.  He stands there and feels the shadows around him flex in response to the turmoil inside his mind, stirred up by a mere handful of sentences because he’d forgotten somewhere along the way, that Peter is equally good at cutting someone off at the knees with little more than a barbed silver tongue.

Peter doesn’t seem to expect him to speak again, and the rigid line of his shoulders relaxes a little more with each passing second as he regains his bearings, not like he thinks Stiles isn’t a threat, but like he thinks Stiles isn’t a threat _to him_.

He’s as much of a fool as his daughter and niece, Stiles thinks, and one of these days, they’ll all pay for it.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Peter lightly bids him instead, and he doesn’t try to touch Stiles as he walks past to head back inside, like he knows Stiles would probably break his arm right about now if he makes the attempt.  The werewolf only lingers in the open doorway long enough to toss back, “Stick around in the morning this time.  I’ll make breakfast.”

Stiles waits until he hears Peter’s bedroom door click shut.  Then he turns to lean against the railing again, releasing a long, tired sigh.

Just for that, he’s going out for coffee and scones come morning.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

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* * *

 

Stiles tucks away his phone and checks that the coast is clear before slipping out of the alley.

It’s been a busy morning.

Behind him, if anyone was looking closely enough, they would’ve seen the shadows yawn and stretch as they surge forward and swallow whole the body that their master has left behind for them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
> Also, did no one read the last chapter? How come everyone's asking me about Stiles' ability with shadows when he literally jumped shadows on the balcony and outright told Peter that he still has some of the Nogi's powers? Or was it just not clear enough?


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